I'd break my flight wings
for some of his avian psychology,
to put the fire back into my feathers.

The infra-red hue of canary wings
still warms up the chill of Death Row.

But best would be the wild taste
of the seedling greens he grew through
wishbones of light, and a spoonful
of river-bed silica sifted through
sixteen inch mesh and washed down
with his finest cod liver oil.